The Ghost of Spring and Some Other
by Vereena
Summary: Things are not always what they seem. Eowyn recalls her days in Meduseld.


Disclaimer: LOTR fanfic. Book-based. Blaim this year's spring for the mood.   
Beta: thanks to Artuta and Melle. Ladies, you are the best!   
Final version: all mistakes are my own. 

*** 

The Ghost of Spring and Some Other. 

Spring is late this year. It is a week since Victory Day, and the last snowstorm was only two days ago. The snow it brought was gone after a few hours, but the chill still lingers. As I look upon the grey sky, I can definitely tell it will be snowing again before the night falls. 

The view from the casement exposes the hills and gardens of Emyn Arnen, still naked - thin black branches interweaving in shivering cobweb of irregular pattern. It is cold outside - and inside as well, even burning hearth is unable to banish the winter from the chambers of the ancient manor. 

I am accustomed to it. The Mark is not much more northern than North Ithilien is, but as long as I remember myself, I have dwelled in perpetual cold. 

Maybe it only seems so; maybe once I was happy, or could smile - probably I did; but I cannot remember. 

What my memory holds, is the day of another spring - sunny spring, unlike this one - and another casement, offering much more bright and vivacious view. Sunlight feasting upon the blossoming hills; sunrays gilding the air in the golden chamber, awakened from the deep sleep of winter. And I, trying to warm ever-icy fingers in this generous light - vainly; vainly, until he comes from behind me. 

"It is not the outer heat that can keep you warm," he said then, and took my hands in his."The warmth of your heart is the only power to exorcise this chill." 

It has been two years since I last saw him. And almost two years that I am married to Faramir, and living in Ithilien. The old mansion of Stewards in Emyn Arnen I call now my domain, but never my home. Once I yearned to leave Meduseld; now I long for returning. 

"We never appreciate things we have," he once said, "always looking regretfully upon the closed door, and never seeing the one that is open for us." Now I can only wonder at his wisdom; and then I was angry with him for not understanding my striving for different lot. 

I was always afraid to be caged. I abandoned my people, my homeland, I ran - and where did my journey end? I am trapped now, worse then ever, ensnared in the bonds of vow spoken on my own will. 

"We both have our obligations," he spoke, "and we cannot step over them." Well, I stepped over mine, while he never did. I am punished enough for my treason now. 

I was such a fool then. I should have realised that if one did not love me as I wanted him to, that did not mean he did not love me with all his soul. 

I guess I am still that fool now. 

It is so cold. If we were in Riddermark, they would say, "such a wintry spring even the elders do not recall." In Ithilien, however, there are no the elders. When we came here two years ago, we led the first settlers whose task was to repopulate this land. The King ordered so; but nobody warned us that it has to be reconquered first. 

Wraiths ruled here for a great many years, and though their leaders and their forces were driven away, they left us rich heritage. The door to the Underworld they have opened, and left ajar, and it is the door no living is able to locate or shut - yet. Or ever? 

Cold. No lively stirring of the fresh air - but dead, immobile chill, like the still waters of the black mire, full of the shadows of the Others. They keep claiming this house, this city, and this land - sometimes I can almost hear them demanding us to leave. And sometimes I myself try to discern familiar voice in this abysmal chorus - but never to any avail. 

I am not as naive as they think me to be; Gondorian prejudice is an ill aid in understanding people. They deem themselves civilized and take pride in their quick wits, finding exceptional pleasure in calling my people "Northern barbarians". They don't trust in their newly crowned King - and were my husband not so honest and loyal, he would be the head of the opposition. Both the King and the White Wizard knew this - and though they also were well aware that Faramir would never betray his liege, they sent us here, gave us this cursed land. A stewardship that more closely resembles exile. A court full of ghosts. The Lord of the Others - this is what they call my husband in Minas Tirith. This is the kind of lordship his friend Gandalf prepared for him. 

"Be not deceived by his swelled truth," I was told once, "because beings such as Gandalf Grayhame see no importance in fates or even lives of mere mortals." And as always, he who told me this was right. 

It seems to me I can remember every single word I ever heard from him. Day after day, I call those words to my memory. I treasure them, caress them - and pity myself. 

Words may mean much, but they may be worthless, if they come too late. The day we were parted, the day I ran out of the Hall and hid in the stables, by Windfola's side, whispering vain puny justifications into his neck, trembling all over in fear and sudden realization - that day I came to the end of words. Nay, the end of lies I've been telling myself. They say truth has four faces; on that day, two of them were uncovered - and two other remained veiled, and thus they would stay forever. 

As he rushed into the stables - alive! - I darted to him, for the first time knowing exactly what I wanted to say. 

"Counsellor! I need a word with you!" 

"No more Counsellor here, my lady," he turned to me briefly, "and no time for words. I beg your forgiveness." He mounted the horse and left. And I never had another chance to tell him how it happened that Gandalf was so knowledgeable of the matters of the Golden Hall. 

I know I did everything right. No one could blame me for what I had done. I spied after a spy, I did it for the sake of good ones - or at least so I thought. But maybe he, too, thought he was doing right? The Mark had no chance of staying aside from the political turmoil then; we were choosing between the two cliques to join. It was all about politics - and, certainly, he was able to put two and two together. So, I guess, in the end he did understand. Yet he never knew how much the one who had been informing Gandalf, was sorry for that afterwards. 

It is mid-Viresse, and it is still freezing. 

Whom I am trying to fool? Even in the high summer, I will be dying in the cold. 


End file.
